Shifting Sands
by Jacquelin Sparrow
Summary: FIVE CHAPTERS. What happens when you take a less-than amenable Agent Sands, a female British assassin, a very dangerous conspiracy and shake well? Find out, inside!
1. A Change in the Wind

**Disclaimer:** If I owned Sands, he would still have eyes, and be in good ol' USA. With me.

**A/N: **This is just a short ficlet...don't know if I'll continue. Inspired by too little sleep, too much college, and an overdose of OUATIM. Although, I don't know if the latter is actually possible....

Sands slumped against the stucco wall as Ramierez walked away, the rough texture raking painfully across various bruises on his back. The bullet wounds in his legs and arm oozed blood lazily and began to throb from the Mexican street dust blown cruelly into him. But, most of all, his head hurt like blazes.

His eye sockets still wept blood. Ironic phrasing that. Likely blood would be the only form his tears would ever take again. Not that he cried much to begin with; it would just be nice to have the option.

As if in further spite, the sky opened up in a little weeping of its own. _Doesn't it figure, _Sands thought dismally, _that this day, of all days, it chooses to rain in Mexico._

"Señor?" If Sands had still possessed eyes he would have rolled them. The kid was back. Why couldn't he just leave the man alone and let him die?

"Screw off, kid," Sands said, without conviction. He heard the boy shift his stance.

"Una mujer esta aquí para ti."

"A woman for me? What do I want with a woman right now?"

"Ella busque para it...quiere ayudarte."

"She was looking for me, was she?" Sands asked, a slight lascivious tone in his voice. "In what way, precisely, did she say she wanted to help me?"

"I was going to save your life," a woman's voice snapped suddenly, "but now I'm having second thoughts."

Sands frowned. The voice was distinctly un-Spanish. In fact, it wasn't even American. In fact...

"You're _British_?"

An arm slid under his good side –well, his better side at any rate- and yanked him none-to-gently to his feet.

"Does it matter?"

"It might."

Sands wrapped an arm around very firm flesh, covered by a denim jacket, a cotton T-shirt...and a shoulder holster with at least two guns. The woman pushed her shoulder under his armpit to support him, then secured a hand around his belt.

"Do you think Americans are the only ones with foreign drug problems?" the woman asked. "Although, if you were to ask a tried-and-true Brit about it, it would be staunchly denied. Truth be told, Latin American cartels are everywhere; it's just easier to ship the rubbish through the Colonies."

"States, sugarbutt," Sands corrected, grunting as she began to walk him...somewhere. "We've been the United States for quite some time, now."

"That's only because you Yanks don't know a good thing when you see it."

A few feet in front of him, he heard a car door being opened.

"Thank you, Joaquin," the woman said, "run home now, and keep quiet about all of this, won't you?"

"Denada, señorita. No voy a decir nada."

"Good boy."

The sound of running footsteps receded as Joaquin made his way home. Carefully, the woman helped Sands into the passenger seat of a car. Slamming the door, and nearly catching his fingers ("Easy on the goods, sugarbutt." "Bugger yourself.") the crunch of gravel and click of the driver's side door sounded as she slipped behind the wheel. The engine rumbled, and they began to move.

"Why are you doing this?" Sands asked suddenly, fear clenching his belly against his will. In his fog of pain he had accepted this strange woman's help; now he realized he knew nothing about her. Not where they were going, who she worked for. _Holy crap_...he didn't even know her name.

"I've heard of you, Agent Sands," the woman told him. "You're a good agent, and a good man...even if you are a pain in the rump."

"I do my best."

"My point is," she continued pointedly, "a man such as yourself doesn't deserve to bleed to death in some dusty back-ally of a barely developed country."

"Mm-hmm." Sands was more touched than he wanted to admit. So he didn't. "Warming up to me, are we, sugarbutt?"

"Would you _stop_ using that ghastly name to refer to me?" she snapped.

"That's the only name I know to use, sugarbutt."

"Adele," she told him succinctly. "Adele McChullain. And don't think that it's pure altruism that drove me to save you."

"Mmm...Adele," Sands murmured, pronouncing it slowly- Ad-ELL-ay. "What do you want from me, then?" he purred seductively. He reached over to touch her thigh. A sharp slap to his fingers caused him to remove them back to his own space.

"Information," Adele said flatly, ignoring his tone. "And for you to keep your bloody hands to yourself if you please. Unless, of course, you wish to lose several other parts of your anatomy."

Sulkily, Sands folded his hands between his knees. This woman was obviously very far away from home; farther than himself. And if she'd been sent here, just as he had, as a means of exile...

_Oh crap...what did she _do? _I'm gonna freak right out..._

The car slowed as Adele maneuvered it to park. Stopped. Metal scraped against metal as she drew the key from the ignition.

"We're here," she murmured.

"And where, if you would be so kind, precisely is 'here'?"

Silent, Adele exited the car. Sands sighed.

_No, she's not gonna tell you, butthole, of course she's not gonna tell you. She wants the power. Wench._

The door opened next to him and fresh evening air rushed into the car. It was evening, closing on full dark by the feel of the breeze. Sands slipped out, irritated when he stumbled forward, not knowing what was in front of him. The car door closed, and a hand gripped his elbow.

"This way, Agent Sands," she said, leading him. "We're at a small cottage; a cozy little place I save for occasions such as the one in which we find ourselves. It sits on a knoll surrounded by desert grass, and trees. There's a stream nearby."

Yes, Sands could hear the chuckle of water, now that she mentioned it. But her describing the place for him surprised him somewhat. For all her claims that she wasn't helping him out of compassion, it sure seemed like it to him.

_I may be blind, but I'm still a sexy beast_, Sands thought, grinning. _Can you dig it, sugarbutt?_

Adele led him inside in silence, and settled him on a couch. He listened, slightly nervous, as her footsteps receded. A few moments later, she returned, and he heard the clack of plastic on wood; she'd lain something on the coffee table. He could feel the heat radiating from her body as she knelt near him, her hands suddenly grasping his shirt collar, unbuttoning it. He gripped her wrists.

"Moving a little fast there, aren't we, kitten?"

He felt her think for a moment before she loosed her wrists from his grasp and stroked his face, ever so lightly. Her hands moved back to his shirt, opening it slowly, her fingertips brushing his chest.

"Better?" Adele asked, grinning fiercely. _You want to play games, yank, we'll play games. Who's better, I wonder?_

Sands gasped in surprise as her hands caressed his chest.

"Much," he said, clearing his throat, and lapsed into silence. Adele removed the shirt entirely, and tossed it away before opening the medical kit. Carefully, as if he might see her, she admired his finely toned chest and arms, the strong –though bloodstained- cheekbones and jaw beneath the sunglasses. Her contacts had told her Sheldon Jeffrey Sands was the man she needed, a dangerous man, an intelligent man. But they didn't tell her he was a looker.

She put some antiseptic on a cloth and looked up at him.

"This is going to hurt."

Sands shrugged, smiling a little. "I like it rough."

_Of course, _Adele thought, smiling as Sands flinched at the antiseptic, _they didn't tell me he was pervy, either._

"The bullet's still in the wound. I'm going to have to take it out."

"Won't be the first thing gouged out of my body today," Sands replied cheerily. "Can you dig it?"

Adele only shook her head and went to work. At the first lance of pain, everything –Ajedrez's betrayal, his blindness, the hurt already rampant in his body- everything came crashing down on Sands' world, and he fainted dead away.

_Oh, no...I can't see! I can't see a cursed thing...what in blazes...?_ Sands sat up jerkily, gasping in panic and pain. He felt the upholstery of the couch beneath him, a blanket atop him. The stitches in his arm and thighs pulled as he moved; he winced. Something was wrapped around his head..._That's why I can't see..._he reached up to touch it, and found the roughness of a bandage. Memory flooded back to him. _No..._Ajedrez_ is why I can't see,_ he thought. Breathing deep, calming breaths, he leaned forward, realizing he still had no shirt on. In fact...Sands ran his hands under the blanket and down his thighs.

He wasn't wearing _anything_ except his boxers.

_What a day to put on the smiley underwear..._

Sands sighed, registering for the first time the scent of cooking meat. His stomach rumbled indignantly. _I never did get to finish my pibil, last time._ He frowned. _Where's Adele? _Sands strained his ears, listening, and heard a shower running close by. A grin stretched across his face. He knew from her ministrations so far that she was well-built, firmly muscled, and smelled _very_ good. He couldn't help but be attracted to her, to tease her as much as he could. Especially now, when he needed to anger, needed her to lash back at him. _What a sight she must be right now._ His smile faded.

_Not like you'll ever see it, Shelly-boy. _

The water stopped. Minutes passed before the bathroom door squeaked open and soft, barefoot steps sounded in the hallway. The sound of terrycloth against wet hair came to him.

"Ah, you're awake. I gave you a dose of painkiller after you passed out; it made you sleep, too, I suppose."

"What time is it?" Sands turned his head in her general direction.

"Nearly ten. Are you hungry? I popped a casserole into the oven; a nice bit of American food."

She moved towards him as she spoke, settling on a corner of the couch. He felt her take his arm, touch his stitches lightly. She did the same with his thighs, pushing the blanket away unabashedly to inspect them. Sands jumped a bit.

"Becoming shy, are we?" Adele asked, amused. Not to be outdone, Sands rubbed her back, feeling the satin of a bathrobe.

"Not at all, sugarbutt; look your fill. Mmm...are you wearing anything under this?"

Adele ran her fingers gently around the edges of his face-bandage, her body close to his, their lips inches apart. He felt the breath from her mouth, and his own caught a little.

"No," she answered. "Want to see?"

Sands felt the blow, but saved face nicely. "I see with my hands now, kitten. Savvy?"

It was Adele's turn to stop breathing. _Touché. _

"I imagine you'll want some clothes, Agent Sands," she said, all business again. She moved away, waiting while he hoisted himself up.

"So formal, Adele?"

She took his hand, leading him slowly. "Would you rather I called you Sheldon?"

"Just 'Sands' is fine, thanks. And I think..." he sniffed gingerly, "I'd like to follow your lead before I put clothes on. Direct me to the shower?"

Adele helped him up and pointed him in the right direction.

"It's the second door on the right. When you enter, the shower is directly to your right, the sink and loo side-by-side to your left. Beyond the shower is a rather large tub if you'd like a soak. Towels under the sink. Oh! Nearly forgot."

Sands heard the brief crinkle of plastic, then felt it touch his arm.

"Stitches," Adele explained shortly.

"Any excuse to touch me, eh, kitten?"

Adele finished, poking his shoulder lightly. "If you need any help," she shot back, "just call me."

"Are you really naked under that robe?" Sands asked. He heard a rustle, then the sound of dropping cloth.

"See for yourself," Adele said insolently, and padded into the kitchen. Sands, swallowing, hightailed it to the bathroom and turned on the cold water full blast.

_You may have finally met your match, Shelly-boy_.

Adele was fully dressed and pulling the casserole out of the oven by the time Sands had finished washing Mexico away. She heard him bump into a wall, then a couch, the coffee table, cursing all the time. She didn't run to help him, though. He would resent it; besides, he needed to learn how to get around on his own. _He won't be able to start sooner._

Adele heard him reach the kitchen entry, but didn't turn around. He cleared his throat a little, and she looked. The British woman clapped a hand over her mouth to contain the guffaw that threatened to spill forth. Sands stood leaning against the doorjamb, his hair streaming, his sunglasses in place...and a mauve towel gripped about his loins.

Sands heard something of her reaction and grinned.

"Like what you see, do you, sugarbutt?"

"Oh, indeed," Adele agreed, smiling. "You do look lovely in pink."

Sands tensed in irritation. _She might be lying_, he thought. _But you know she's not._ His first instinct was to toss the towel away; his second quickly overrode this. Teasing was one thing; he wasn't about to go around flashing this woman. Especially when he didn't how she'd react.

"I'm sure that's the truth," he replied blandly. "When you offered me clothes earlier, I assume you meant men's clothes?"

Adele was still attempting not to snort. "Mmm-hmm."

"That offer still open?"

"Yes, of course!" Adele snapped back to herself, leading him by the elbow (of the arm _not_ holding the towel) to the guestroom. There, she told him the general layout of the room, which clothes were in which drawers, etc... He heard the smooth click of dresser drawers opening as she spoke and the slap of cloth as clothing hit the bed.

"There you are," Adele told him. "Five steps to the bed, and you've got a cotton shirt, jeans, and underroos. All black, I'm afraid. No cheery smilies on anything."

Sands' mouth twitched. _It was only a matter of time before she mentioned the underwear..._

"Question," he said, as he heard her start to leave, "how is it that a woman who lives alone –that fact is evident by the scent of your shampoo, FYI- has men's clothes lying in wait in her guestroom?"

He almost felt Adele grin.

"Why, that's rather simple, Agent Sands. You're not the first man to have stayed here."


	2. Surprise!

"I'm not, am I?" Sands muttered. He could almost _feel_ Adele grinning.

"Jealous?"

Sands smirked. "Not on your life, sugarbutt. I'll be glad to share you."

The next sound he heard was the door slamming as Adele left him to dress. With less difficulty than he thought, Sands pulled on the clothes (which were slightly big) and made his way to the kitchen more easily than he had the first time. The clink of dinnerware on wood told him where the table was, and he clasped the back of a chair with a feeling like triumph. He seated himself, felt around briefly for the silverware, and turned his head in Adele's general direction.

"All right, kitten. Spill."

A plate was set in front of him and a chair scraped across the way.

"I don't think that would be conducive to enjoying the meal," Adele said blithely. He heard the scrape of fork against china and followed her lead. _I don't even know what she's feeding me..._

"I _mean_," he said blandly, "what is this non-altruistic reason you have for pulling my butt out of that putrid little alley?"

"Oh, that. Well, you see, what I told you about Latinamericano cartels in Europe wasn't precisely true. That was only to appease any listening ears, and to give young Joaquin something to repeat, if he slips. And he will," she sighed. "They're well meaning at that age, but indiscreet."

"Point," Sands said around a mouthful of food. It wasn't pibil, but it wasn't bad, he decided.

"Ah, yes. The point is, Agent Sands, I lied. What I need you for actually has nothing to do with the Barillo cartel, or any cartel for that matter. Also, I'm not working for the British government. Not publicly, at any rate."

"Hmm...the plot thickens," Sands commented. "But, sweetie, you've still neglected to give me the straight poop –so to speak- about what you really want me for. Unless of course, you're waiting for me to make the first move..."

Adele's glare could have melted a glacier in ten seconds flat; Sands could feel it.

"I'm an assassin," she told him bluntly. Whatever Sands had been waiting for, that certainly wasn't it. He only just managed to swallow the food in his mouth before feeling around for his beverage. After he had avoided choking to death, he managed a question.

"So you've been sent to kill me?"

"If I was to kill you, Sands, you'd be dead. No, I need you so that I can get to the person I need to kill. You know all about him, I've been told. Know him intimately, in fact."

"Can I know his name, or is it a big secret?"

"Cristobal Pele Juarez Larento."

Once again, Sands had to avoid choking on his food.


	3. Sandstorm

**Disclaimer: **If I owned Sands, would I really be in a college dorm right now? The correct answer is no.

"Remember him, do you?" Adele asked, amused, as Sands cleared his windpipe. Sands smiled grimly, valiantly tamping down the urge to flip her off.

"Yeah, sugarbutt, you could say that. Then again, it's pretty hard to forget the soulless, backstabbing, SOB that gave you something like _this,_" and he turned around, pushing the hair away from his neck. Adele didn't gasp –Sands guessed in her line of work she'd seen much worse- but he could feel her go very still. A long, V-shaped scar marked the back of his neck, silent testimony as to why he kept his hair long.

"Cristobal, after kindly informing me that his true employers were members of an international _cult_, turned me over to the highest of the muckety-mucks, who then thought it would be a great idea to kill me by scalping." His chair scraped back violently, tipping over with a crash as he stood.

"_And if you think for one SECOND that I am going to help you find that ILLEGITIMATE, SCREWING, SON OF A WHORE, you've got another think comin', sweet pea, 'cause I ain't doin' it."_

With a mighty kick to his fallen chair (he heard it crash violently into the lower cabinets and Adele's answering curse) he stalked out of the room, with only a minor injury to his dignity as he slammed into the doorjamb.

"Sands!" Adele yelled. He heard her footsteps as she stomped after him. "Sands!"

He found the nearest door and went through it, locking it once he was inside the room. Turning to figure out where he was, he bumped into something soft. A coat. _Friggin' brilliant, Shelly-boy. You're in a closet._

"Anyone asks," he muttered, "I _meant_ to walk in here."

A fist pounding echoed through the wood.

"Sands! Come out!" Adele said forcefully. "You know you locked yourself in a closet."

"On purpose!" Sands defended. "And I'm not coming out!"

"You've got to sometime," Adele said reasonably. "I'm not feeding you in there, there's no loo...and I don't think you're the sort of chap that relishes a slow death. So, when you're ready to come out and listen to _reason_ you stupid git, I'll be ready to explain further."

Footsteps echoed away from the door; Sands listened for a few moments to make sure she was truly gone, then slid down to the floor of the closet. He would spend one night in here, at least, to make his point. Then, _maybe_ he would listen.

Maybe.

Adele cleaned the kitchen with more vigor than usual, muttering to herself.

"Didn't _tell_ me he was a _CHILD_," –this was shouted for Sands' benefit- "who didn't have the ballocks to _FACE HIS PAST_," she intentionally raised her voice again, knowing he could hear her. No sound came from the closet, and for a moment Adele wondered if he'd found the fold-down stairs to the attic and was long gone. But, this idea was most firmly quashed a moment later when the closet door slammed open hard enough to dent the wall, and Sands stomped into the kitchen, bumping into random objects and knocking things on the floor, cursing viscously all the way.

"What right do you have," he asked, dangerously quiet, "to tell _ME _that I need to face _MY PAST_. You don't know the half of it, sugarbutt, and you don't want to. My guess is a little bit of British silk like you has never endured anything worse than a paper-cut, so _SCREW OFF, WENCH_. It's _my decision, and I'm not freaking going_. Deal with it."

He turned and was about to trip his way back to the closet (or, hopefully, find his bedroom this time) when a firm hand gripped his shoulder. The nails dug through the cotton of his shirt, warning him not to progress further. He stopped, arms crossed, waiting. Adele came around to face him and he heard the light rustle of cloth. Insistently, she took his hand and placed it on the warm flesh of her abdomen.

"What the..." Sands hadn't been expecting _this_.

"Shut up," Adele said quietly, and moved his hand to her ribcage. There, a long line of knotted, ridged flesh rose above the rest, coursing over her ribs and tummy, across her upper right hip, and continued around to her back.

"Bugger of a paper cut," the assassin whispered. She back away from him then, with a cut off sigh. Moments later, her bedroom door slammed. Sands remained in the living room, feeling like the world's biggest heel.

_Well, Shelly old jerk, that's because you are. _


	4. Shifting Sands

**Disclaimer: **No. Sands is not mine, despite all the pennies, and all the knocking on wood, and all the rubbing of bottles. sigh>> Mmmph.

**A/N:** Feel free to tell me if this chapter is a bit too fluffy for these characters. I mean, I know that everyone has emotions deep down, it's just that I'm not certain how much these two can trust yet. Thanks!!

_Buggering, bloody, son of a-_ Adele changed into her pajamas with unnecessary vigor, yanking clothes on violently and flinging her bedclothes back as if she were throwing a boomerang. She pulled her gun from its holster, checked the clip and safety, and stuffed it under her pillow.

'_T would be brilliant if I could use it on that..._she growled deep in her throat. How could he? How _dared _he? To think, she had almost begun to empathize with him when he'd revealed his scar! She should have known he'd act like a child. He hadn't stopped teasing or sulking since she'd met him; why should she assumed there was anything to him other than the surface?

She flopped backward on her bedding, cracking her skull on the headboard in the process.

"Ahhhowww!" she intoned angrily. Tears gathered in her eyes. Snatching at a tissue from the box on her nightstand, she attempted to convince herself they were from the jolt, and nothing more.

_Assassins don't weep, little lass. Not over things like..._

"Why does his opinion _matter_, anyway?" she said aloud.

"I dunno any better than you do, sugarbutt."

Adele jumped and turned toward the door. Sands stood on the threshold, hands stuffed in his pockets, hair obscuring his face.

"How long have you been there?" Adele snapped. Sands grinned cheekily.

"Long enough, sweet pea."

"You know," Adele told him heatedly, "if you've come just to be exasperating again..."

The grin disappeared. Sands turned his face to the floor, looking almost sheepish.

"I...I'm...I just wanted you to know I- I didn't mean what I said to you," the words came out in a jumble that Adele barely understood. Before she could reply, the agent turned and exited the room.

Adele rose and followed him in silence. He found his own bedroom, and slumped onto the bed, face in his hands.

"Was it really that difficult?" Adele said gently. Sands' head came up, and he smirked a little.

"I've never done that before. Apologized. To anyone. So, yeah, sweet pea, it was hard."

He heard footsteps come towards him. Feminine hands, smelling like some kind of lotion, cupped his face. Fingers traced the outside of his sunglasses, not touching the wounds, but tracing his scars, as he had traced hers.

"Thank you," Adele murmured and began to leave.

"Adele," Sands said. The woman stopped; he'd used her name only once before since they'd met.

"I'll go with you, do whatever it takes to kill that son of a gun."

"Good." The word was whispered before the door closed softly, leaving Sands alone with his thoughts.


	5. Overcoming Dunes

**Disclaimer:** Adele is mine. Sands is not. Why is life so unfair?

**A/N:** I'm sorry it took me so long to update all my fics, but it's finally finals week (no pun intended) and I've nothing to do today, so I'm like "I shall update my fics!" I plan to update regularly for several weeks as Christmas vacation (whoot!) starts tomorrow.

Adele jerked awake to a sound she couldn't at first identify. Her heart bumped in her chest at an unnerving rate as she listened, finally pinning the noise down.

Sands was screaming.

Slipping out of bed, Adele made her way to his room, quietly opening the door. Sands thrashed about so violently she thought he might break his back, screaming at the top of his lungs. Sweat gleamed on his exposed arms and chest, and his sunglasses had been dislodged by his movements. Suddenly, he sat up, jerking his head into his hands, eyelids open to reveal empty sockets staring blackly at nothing. The look of sheer terror on his face tore at Adele's heart, but she didn't go to him.

Likely he would only be angry that she had seen his weakness. After his pseudo-apology the walls had gone back up, for both of them. No matter how badly Sands looked as if he needed comfort, he wouldn't accept it, anymore than Adele would in his place.

After a few moments, Sands calmed enough to feel around for his sunglasses, cursing creatively, and muttering about someone named Ajedrez and Cristobal Larento. Adele felt his pain from where she stood at the door. Her own encounter with Larento had left her sleepless and panicky for months. She still couldn't get a wink unless she had a pistol beneath her pillow. Old, unwanted memories came back suddenly, banishing all grogginess from Adele's mind. Sighing silently, she shut the door and went into the kitchen for a brandy.

Sands held his head in his hands, swallowing thickly against the bile that threatened to rise. His sore throat bore testament to the volume of his screams, and he silently thanked whatever powers were listening that Adele seemed to be an incredibly heavy sleeper. The last thing he needed was someone rushing in to pour saccharine comfort all over him. He was a big boy. He could deal with this himself. _I hope._

He felt around for his sunglasses, muttering rude things. It had all been so real. He could feel it all again, all of it. Cristobal and Ajedrez were both there, torturing him. As Sands' fingers finally found his sunglasses, he heard the door click shut.

_Damnation._

She'd seen him, after all. She'd seen him screaming like a stuck pig, trembling like some child afraid of the Boogie Man. She'd seen his weakness. She hadn't come to him though, a thing that confused him for a moment. Adele was a tough customer, but there was an underlying compassion in her voice and manner that he would have thought would drive her in here. But she had let him be.

_She knew better, _he realized. _She knew that I would just cock off to her again._ He rolled his shoulders uncomfortably. Adele was an odd woman; infuriating one moment, but teasing or thoughtful the next. There were complexities in her tone that he couldn't even begin to unravel. And he wasn't sure he wanted to.

_Screw it_, he thought, lying sleepless on his back. _I wonder if there's any alcohol in the house. _

Sliding out of the bed, he felt around for some pants and yanked them on as he left the room. Of course, this took two tries as he smacked into the wall the first time, and had to feel around for the doorknob. _Maybe I should get one of those handy-dandy blind-guy canes_, he thought ruefully, padding to the kitchen. He managed to get there without too much fuss.

He began to open cupboards in an attempt to find anything resembling a glass bottle. He knew he'd have to be careful, though. _Wouldn't want to take a swig of vinegar, now would we? Or worse, vanilla extract._ Grimacing, he continued his search.

"Midnight snack?" a British voice said, amused. Sands started, knocking soup cans to the floor. One landed on his unprotected foot. The epithets that sprang from his mouth were as amusing as they were filthy, and Adele found herself holding her breath to keep from laughing.

"Thank you," he said blandly, "for scaring the bejeevers out of me."

"Bejeevers?" Adele asked, curiously. He could almost hear her smirking.

"That'd be it, sugarbutt. You got anything stronger than apple juice around here?"

"It's on the table," Adele told him. He heard the scrape of a glass bottle being slid over wood. "I'll get you a glass."

Sands took a seat, and felt gently for the bottle. "Drinking in the middle of the night, Adele? I wouldn't think that to be a vice of a British assassin."

"Because it dulls the senses?" Adele asked, handing him a glass. Sands grinned, pouring himself a drink.

"Because your tight-arsed." He sipped his drink; mm. Brandy. _Tequila would be better but I'll take what I can get._

"Oh, really?" Adele responded. "You buy into stereotypes, do you?"

"C'mon, kitten, if you're the norm for British natives, it's not a stereotype. It's a fact."

"Indeed? Well, if you're the norm for American inhabitants, I would say the world is doomed."

Sands raised his glass. "Straight up, sugarbutt." He sipped his brandy. "So, what are you doing out here, sipping brandy at this ungodly hour?"

"None of your bloody business," Adele said companionably. "What are you doing looking for alcohol in my cupboards at the same hour?"

"I'll show you mine if you show me yours," Sands said with a lazy smile. Adele sniffed.

"Then I suppose we're both going to remain fully clothed."

"That's a shame," Sands said, with feeling. "So, when do we leave this muck hole for fairer pastures, so to speak?"

"Noon, tomorrow. We've a layover in Ireland, then on to jolly old Spain."

"I thought it was jolly old England?"

"'Twas until they kicked me out. Good night, Agent Sands."

Her chair scraped linoleum as she stood. Sands remained silent as she padded down the hall to her bed room, sipping his brandy. He listened carefully as her door opened, and heard her pause.

Barely audible, he heard her whisper, "Sweet dreams," with compassion. He knew he wasn't meant to hear her, and wasn't about to let on that he had.

But the worlds meant something, all the same.


	6. Annoying Grit Or Awkward Moments

**Disclaimer: **A dream is a wish your heart makes. Unfortunately, the only place I own Sands is in my dreams.

**A/N:** I hope you all had a lovely Christmas/Hannukah/Kwanza/Yuletide. It is because of the holiday season that it's taken me two weeks to update. When you're home for the first time in a month, your parents don't like to share you w/ the computer. Apologies.

After consuming most of the contents of the brandy bottle, Sands felt his way back to bed and was able to drift into something vaguely resembling sleep. Just as he'd reached a somewhat soothing REM cycle, a sharp rap on his door jerked him into wakefulness.

"Cheerio and good morning," Adele said, swinging his door open. Sands groaned. _Not only is she a sarcastic, irritating little wench…she's a _morning person. _Just my freaking luck._ Groaning, he rolled over so as not to…face her? It wasn't as if he could see her, but it got the point across, all the same. Of course, Adele was equally eager to get _her_ point across.

This was accomplished by the swift removal of his blankets. Sands let out an epithet that would have curled a sailor's ears and felt around blindly (no pun intended) for the warmth so rudely stolen from him.

"_Get up_, Agent Sands," Adele said tersely, "or I shall have to employ the ice bucket."

"I didn't hear an ice bucket," Sands muttered to his pillow.

"That doesn't mean that I'm incapable of obtaining one." Adele's voice held a note of sincerity. Sands sat up and started to grind his palms into his eyes, then reconsidered. Swinging his legs over the bed, he felt the pain of his bullet wounds return full force. He valiantly held back a grunt as he unfolded himself from the bed and stretched luxuriantly. Adele sniffed.

"What's wrong, sugarbutt, am I making you uncomfortable?" he asked with a slight smirk. Adele considered the sudden warmth in her cheeks and responded accordingly.

"Not at all, Agent Sands. In fact, you make me very comfortable, indeed. Would you like some help getting dressed?"

Sands opened his mouth for a sarcastic retort and stopped. True, all the things she'd pulled for him yesterday were black (at least according to her) but there was little chance that _all_ of the apparel in the dresser was the same color. Chances were, he'd need her help so as not to look like a fruit salad. After all, most men preferred variety in their clothing. _Like cheap wigs and bad touristy T-shirts. _Sands smirked.

"I'd be much obliged, Adele," he said huskily, and took a step toward her voice.

"I'm not one to turn down a chap in distress," Adele replied in kind and slid past him, brushing shoulders with him. Her hair was long enough to caress his skin; he shuddered at the ticklish sensation. The scrape of drawers being opened echoed softly, followed by the light rustle of cloth.

"Red, today, I think," Adele murmured. "Dark red; to compliment your skin tone."

"You sound like one of those sales girls that flatter men into buying overpriced clothes."

"Hmm. Never thought you'd guess my former profession," Adele said dryly, handing him a shirt and a pair of jeans. "Now, socks and…a light jacket…" Drawers slid shut with a click and hanger hooks screeched across the rod in the closet. Sands finished dressing, squirming uncomfortably in the shirt. Somehow, it just didn't fit right.

"Brown," Adele muttered as she turned. "Something neutral to-" Her words were cut off by a sudden bark of laughter. Sands scowled, knowing it had something to do with him.

"What?" he snapped, still tugging at the weird shirt. Adele approached him, giggling, and brushed his hands away from the fabric.

"You've buttoned your shirt very…oddly," she informed him. He'd skipped at least two buttons at the collar, and missed one other on the way down. Adele grinned as she undid Sands' handiwork. _He's still a crack shot, even blind, but he can't dress alone!_ The smile faded a bit. _It must be difficult, _she reflected. _Even humiliating._

Sands, meanwhile, was doing all he could to keep his breathing steady. He was torn between being angry that she had to help him, and being flustered that she was this close. From the first, his flirtatious baiting had been returned with a zeal he hadn't expected. He wasn't certain if her reactions were instinctual or something more. _I hate figuring out women_, he thought acerbically.

Adele finished her task and arranged the shoulder seams carefully.

"Much better. There's a jacket and socks on the bed, then. I trust you can handle those on your own?" Her tone was lightly teasing. Sands smiled without humor.

"Yeah."

"All right. Shoes next to the door, breakfast in the kitchen. I'll leave you be."

Air pressure shifted as the woman turned to leave; Sands reached out a hand, his fingers just brushing her back.

"Adele…" he said softly. Hair brushed against his fingers as her head turned.

"Yes?"

"Thanks." The word was clipped, a whisper almost lost as the agent cleared his throat. The hair caressed his wrist as she nodded.

"You're welcome."

Adele slid twin plates of eggs onto the table, listening for Sands' approach. It wasn't difficult to judge; she guessed that his painkillers had worn off by the suppressed grunts and stiff movement. She placed a napkin with two small, blue pills on it next to his orange juice.

Moments later, the agent entered the kitchen, his face rather taut. He sat with some difficulty and felt around for his silverware.

"Painkiller's to the right of the orange juice," Adele remarked. Sands grasped the pills and swallowed them dry. Silence reigned until they began to take effect; then the real Agent Sands returned.

"So, a stray Brit and an eyeless American flying out of Mexico…not suspicious at all," he said dryly. "How do you expect to get out of this country without 'havin' a hurtin'' put on us?"

"Simple," a box clacked against the table, followed by the clink of something metallic. Sands fiddled the box open and touched its contents. _Glass eyes?_ He felt for the metallic object…a ring…

"Oh, no! Not a _chance _this side of the river Styx, sugarbutt! No _way_ am I traveling as anybody's _husband_…"

"I'd love to hear if you have a better suggestion," Adele snapped, "but I don't think they'd buy us as brother and sister; your accent would give us away."

"My _accent…_"

"Besides! They're looking for an eyeless American traveling alone, not a blind man and his bride! It's not as if we have to sleep together, or anything."

Sands smiled smugly. "That's not the part I was worried about, kitten. It's just that I'm not the marrying type."

"All the more reason for you to don the disguise," Adele urged. "At least put in the eyes."

"Fine." Sands reached for the box and touched the glass sphere. Rolling it around in his fingers, he realized there was no way to tell the front from the back..._a man with no pupils; wouldn't that be a shocker?_

"Adele," he muttered, "little help."

And, once again she was uncomfortably close, touching him with those firmly gentle hands. In an attempt to distract himself, a thought occurred to him.

"These little facsimiles _are_ the same color, aren't they?"

"Of course," Adele answered, easing the second ball carefully past the bone, "they're a rather lovely blue, actually."

"I'd prefer brown," Sands muttered.

"Why? So that everyone will know for certain that you're completely full of-"

"That's no way to talk to your hubby, sweetheart," Sands cut in. Adele grinned and dropped the cool circle into his palm.

"I knew you'd warm up to me," she said smugly, and sauntered out of the room. (He could _hear_ her sauntering; lousy Brit.)

Nostrils flared, Sands muttered to himself, "That's my line, too."


End file.
